Marked
by Ophium
Summary: Pain is a social beast, especially amongst brothers, spreading the suffering of one to all the others who dare share the moment. Set in season 3, so, mostly speculation. Read the warning inside.


While this story is pure speculation, it is based on a picture from season 3, so, if you're avoiding all kinds of spoilers, please read no further.

 **SPOILERS**

So, for those who have been keeping up to date with the pictures released by the producers and actors of the show, I'm sure you've seen a number of them with Aramis showing off a brand new scar on his cheek. This story, as it is, gives a small glimpse of how that scar might have come to happen.

More than looking for grammar errors and spelling, I must thank **Jackfan2** for her brilliant additions and writing in this piece. All remaining crap is mine ;) Enjoy!

* * *

Something yanked him away from the safety of darkness, a violent shove back into reality that was neither welcomed nor called for.

Aramis could smell sweat and burned candle wax in the air. There was something scratching at his face. With sharp claws. Digging and pulling at the skin of his face like some kind of playful cat, straight from Hell. "Sto... stop't!"

He gagged, tasting blood in his mouth as he spoke. Why did his words taste of blood?

There were voices floating around, talking to him perhaps, but their words sounded more jumbled than his had been. Aramis forced his mind into cooperation, feeling like he was trying to push a cart with square wheels.

Maybe his lack of understanding lay not within the words themselves but in their interpretation. Maybe the reason he wasn't understanding a word of what they were saying was because he was looking for meaning in the wrong language. In his addled mind, that was the only reason that could explain why the scratching and painful pulling had resumed instead of ceasing. " _Basta! No mas!_ "

Spanish, however, achieved no more than French had, for no one seemed to mind his demands. Deciding that enough was enough, Aramis imagined himself raising his arm and pushing away whomever was touching his face. He had given no consent to such kind of fondling and besides, he highly doubted that the rough fingers assailing his flesh belonged to any of his known female relations.

Envisioning movement in his arms, however, was as far was his limbs seemed willing to cooperate. The traitors. They lay useless at his sides, ignoring to his desires, heavy as cannon balls and about as lifeless.

He twisted his fingers, searching for the rope bidding his limbs, but he couldn't find any. If he wasn't bound, then why could he not move? Besides, there had been rope before, had there not? "Lemme... be," he tried again, resorting to words to accomplish what his hands refused to do. " _Por favor!_ "

Aramis shifted uneasily upon the hard surface, confused and alarmed at the intention of his tormentor, bedeviling the flesh of his already agonized face. Instinct screamed at him to open his eyes and discover for himself the reason for the forced contact, what the sounds around him meant, who was speaking to him in such soft tones while torturing him so.

In truth, opening his eyes had been the first thing he had attempted but, like his arms laden with exhaustion, they too had refused to obey. Never before had he been as conscious of his own lids as Aramis was then, feeling them twice as thick and stiff as planks of wood. His nose felt numb, sitting like an inflated pig bladder in the middle of his face.

The image almost made him giggle. Instead, he snorted, feeling something vile and thick move against the back of his throat. It rose, like lava inside a volcano, as eager to come out and just as hot.

Aramis had barely registered what was happening as hands, too many hands, grabbed onto him and pushed him to lay on his side. He wanted to scream, to protest, but as he opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was vomit. He could smell the bile and blood in it. It made him feel like he was dying.

Being sick, however, brought some relief from the scratching and pulling and as the hands released him, Aramis finally relaxed. The left side of his face still ached mercilessly, but at least now no one was touching him.

Until a pair of hands, large hands, grabbed his shoulders and pushed him to once more lay on his back. Aramis tensed, his hands turning into fists by his side. "No..."

The word sounded weak and feeble even to his own ears, but Aramis couldn't help it. His thoughts and memories were nothing but a mesh of loose strings and images, but the sense of being in danger and unprotected were the only certainties his aching head could ascertain.

"Aramis... Aramis!"

Aramis stopped struggling, unaware that he was actually doing it until his body relaxed and his arms flopped lifelessly, back beside his body. He could recognize that word, his name. But more than that, he remembered the feeling of security that came from that tone of voice and the person behind it. He knew only one man who spoke his name as if it was both a gift and a cross to bear. "Porthos?"

Though he couldn't see it, Aramis could perfectly imagine the smile spreading across his friend's face, like a ray of sun peeking out from behind the clouds.

He couldn't help it. He tried to smile back, only for it to come out as a hiss, as the movement ignited a fiery pain that seemed intent on consuming the whole left side of his face. What was wrong with him? "Porthos?"

~§~

Porthos was of a mind to find a way to bring those bastards back to life so that he could kill them again. Slower this time around.

They hadn't arrived too late, thank God for that, but they hadn't arrived soon enough either. Aramis was a mess. Those bastards had made a bloody wreck of his friend and he hadn't been there to stop it.

They had also made sure that Aramis couldn't pass himself as Spanish ever again, at least not in that region. Were it up to him, Porthos would make sure that never happened again, either way.

The mission had called for someone who could easily infiltrate the small scouts' camp and steal the plans within their possession. Being one of the few in the group who could actually speak the language without stumbling over every two words, Aramis had, naturally, volunteered. He had done it before, more times than Porthos cared to count.

No one had counted on the scouts being joined by a larger group. No one had expected that one of the Spanish soldiers in that group would recognize Aramis as a Musketeer. No one had expected for it to go so wrong, so damn fast.

And most of all, no one had dared consider the amount of sheer brutality the Spanish could unleash in so short amount of time. Somewhere between the lookout's return to camp to alert Athos and the time it took the Musketeers to mount a rescue, they'd managed to inflict more damage than was thought possible.

Porthos was certain that the sheer wrath and violence with which those Musketeers descended upon the Spanish scouts, was the only reason why his captors had failed to kill Aramis. They had been too stunned and fearful for their lives to take any other action but trying to escape.

They had enough time to mark him, though.

Porthos could think of no other way to classify what they had done to Aramis' face other than that, a mark.

It would be too easy for the ones who had escaped to spread the word amongst the rest of the Spanish troops now. To warn them about the Frenchman with the scarred left cheek who would try and pass himself as Spanish and steal their secrets. The subterfuge would never work again.

Aramis had lost his fight with consciousness by the time they had managed to reach him and, even now, as they tried to mend what the Spanish had broken, he still refused to regain his senses.

He was covered in cuts and bruises, but the bastards had concentrated on Aramis' face, as if the Musketeer's features had offended them somehow. Both his eyes were swollen shut, dark bruising spreading from his broken nose to encircle both lids and part of his cheek. His left cheek was gaping apart, flesh dissected by a cut that run all the way to his jaw line, blood crusting in Aramis' beard like grisly snowflakes.

Despite the sight, what worried Athos and Porthos the most was the swollen purple flesh on the right side of Aramis' forehead, looking ferocious in its vileness and that could, to some extent, explain the jumbled words that occasionally escaped Aramis' lips.

It also explained why his face suddenly lost all color and they were left with but a few seconds to react before Aramis drowned in his own vomit.

Porthos rubbed calming circles over Aramis' back, feeling the muscles quivering under his touch. It broke his heart to hear his friend veering between French and Spanish, as if he wasn't sure which side held him, still unable to determine if he was amongst friend or foe.

He could see the way Athos tensed whenever Aramis' spoke, begging them to leave him alone, imploring them to stop.

They couldn't, though. The cut on Aramis' face was jagged and bleeding profusely. It needed to be sewed shut. But first, they needed to clean the skin around it, both from dirt as well as hair.

It seemed wrong to be shaving Aramis' beard without his consent or knowledge. As far as Porthos could remember, he had never seen his friend without some form of facial hair. He could not imagine the familiar face without the trimmed beard. He didn't want to.

But the wound needed stitches and they had no other option. In his mind, Porthos could see another time when Aramis' appearance had been altered without his saying so. Then too it had been done to save his life, although such knowledge did nothing to make it easier.

Aramis had been so consumed by grief and remorse after the events of Savoy that it took him nearly a month after taking off the bandages to realize that they had shaved a good portion of his hair. Instead of complaining and mourning the temporary lost of his curls, as they assumed -wished- he would do, Aramis had simply taken a blade to his head and shaven the rest off. The sight of a bald Musketeer, more than the knowledge of what he'd been through, had brought chills to all that gazed upon him.

The cut in Aramis' face needed to be dealt with before infection could set in and, despite all of his comments about Porthos dislike of stitches and all manner of medical treatment, Aramis wasn't any better. Both Porthos and Athos had, unfortunately, some experience in dealing with a disoriented and defensive Aramis. Their lives were ones of violence and, whether in the immediate aftermath of some trauma, or in remembrance of another, they had all been there. All it took was one look from Athos and Porthos knew what he had to do.

He cursed his large hands and the strength in his arms as he grabbed Aramis' shoulders and restrained him to the cot with such ease. Even though it was for his own good, the actions still stung of treason in Porthos' heart.

Aramis struggled, because no matter what, Aramis would always fight. Even though it must have ached fiercely to make any move with his muscles abused in such a manner, Aramis still fought. And he would continue to fight until he was either spent or dead.

Porthos couldn't take it any longer. "Aramis... Aramis!"

They had called his name before, tried to explain to their confused friend where he was and that he was safely among friends. The pain and his battered head, however, conspired to rob Aramis of his senses and left him combative in the face of confusion and pain.

That too they had witnessed before. Experience did not made it any easier.

However, this time it seemed something registered. Porthos cared not if it had been the name, the pleading tone he had used, or simply the sound of a familiar voice. He was just grateful that the word had managed to push through the veil of confusion and anchor their friend to them.

"Porthos?"

Porthos could feel his face splitting in smile. He could swear he had never heard a sound sweeter than his name coming from his brother's lips, the first sign they'd had that Aramis was on his way back.

The flash of pain that passed through Aramis' face as he tried to follow Porthos' smile reminded them of the pressing matters at hand. That cut could wait no longer.

"Athos is going to put some stitches in you," Porthos explained, voicing his words carefully and unhurried. Even so, he could see that they were barely registering, Aramis' mind too consumed by pain to listen. The fact that they were about to cause more suffering instilled with him the desire to retreat, to leave and be no party to the coming onslaught. Only the deep understanding of his brother's need kept him there. "It'll be over in a second, you'll see, eh?"

He exchanged a look with Athos as Aramis sagged under his touch. It was, he figured, about as good as they were going to get. "Do it, Athos."

~§~

When it came to skill with thread and needle, Athos was the least competent of them all. There was no modesty or humility involved in the assessment for he had no time to waste with such hypocrisy. He simply could not stitch a straight line and that was the truth of the matter; each knotted thread he applied turned out wildly different from the one before, not to mention from the one that followed.

Maybe it was the fact that he grew up not having to mend or even concern himself with his clothes; maybe it was the wine that nightly replaced the blood in his veins that prevented his fingers to work a straight line as much as his feet. Whatever the reason, Athos shied away from using a needle with the same tenacity as the devil running from the cross.

There was no helping the matter, however. With D'Artagnan away, delivering a report to Minister Treville, and Porthos the only one strong enough to hold Aramis down while they tended to him, the task fell to him. He had no other choice but to do his best and resist the nerves that assailed his mind at the prospect of knitting flesh together with each tug of thread.

Athos used his sleeve to wipe the sweat away from his face, cursing the enemy ball that had claimed the life of the only physician positioned at their camp. And then cursed again, this time fate, for placing him in such position.

Had the wound been anywhere else, Athos would have no qualms about inflicting his ugly stitching on his friend. After all, he had done it before. Only, this was Aramis' face.

Despite the preening and exhibitionist mask that Aramis presented for the whole world to see, Athos knew the greater depth of the man beneath the shallow and vain persona. Well acquainted with the effects of his appearance, Aramis, like any good soldier, was keenly aware of his strengths and weaknesses. He used his charm and good looks much in the same manner as he used his marksmanship and skill with a sword. This, for him, would be tantamount to a speck of rust in his sword or dirt in the barrel of his pistol. A nuisance.

It wouldn't be as simple for others. It wouldn't be as simple for _him_. From that day on, Athos' lack of expertise would forever be branded on Aramis' face, in the scar that he would bear for all to see. Athos' skill at sewing a mirror to his skill as a leader.

His hands trembled and Athos forced himself to focus. Now was neither the time nor the place, but his mind seemed dead set on making him face the consequences of his failures no matter what.

Athos watched from a distance, an exile from his own body, as his fingers pressed the two sides of the wound closer together and his hand pushed the needle in. The first stitch was always the easiest one.

"Yer doing good, Athos," Porthos said, trying to sound encouraging. Trying to make him forget his failures.

Athos was a leader of men, in a time of war. And war was an animal that fed upon man's flesh. Those not devoured, still carried the marks of its thirsty teeth, deep inside their souls.

The cold, hard fact that he would not be able to protect them all from death or even harm was too obvious to ignore. Still, each time he was forced to send back to Paris someone as either a maimed soldier or a corpse, reality had a way of sneaking in and beating him bloody.

A second stitch settled against skin painted red with blood. Aramis whimpered under his breath, words that could either be a prayer or a curse, escaping his lips.

Athos deserved to be cursed. He had planned that mission. He had offered a choice to his men, knowing that Aramis was the perfect man for the task, knowing that Aramis would not shy away from doing what was necessary. Knowing that he would not have to order his friend into danger because Aramis would offer his life like it wasn't the most precious thing that he could give.

Athos' gaze veered from the line of small stitches to Aramis' split lip, the one wound he knew he could not blame on the Spanish.

Aramis had been in good spirits, even as he'd traded his uniform for the dirty clothes of a dead Spanish soldier and asked Athos to punch him hard enough to make him look like an escaped prisoner.' _God protects fools and little children_ ', Aramis had told him in jest, wiping the blood from his lips before departing for his mission. Given that Aramis was neither, Athos should have been less surprised when everything had gone so terribly wrong and Aramis was left injured in the process. More than injured, he had been _marked_.

It hadn't been a wound with the intention of killing. Porthos had been right about that. There was no other way to look at matter, no other name to call the vile action that had been taken upon his friend.

Like the figures and words that some men wore on their skin, inked or branded deeply upon their flesh, Aramis too would carry that scar. For all to see. Telling him apart from the plainness of the rest.

Then again, rarely had Aramis been accused of being plain. Just... never for such reasons.

Athos' eyes stung with unshed tears. There was a long row of brown stitches running from Aramis' jaw to his cheek, where the wound ended in a triangular piece of torn skin. It shouldn't be there. This shouldn't have happened.

Athos cut the thread and placed one hand over Aramis' chest, seeking comfort he knew he did not deserved, from the gentle rise and fall of his friend's lungs. Underneath the linens and bruises, there was a rapid beating heart that could have ceased its beating that day.

As long as they had a war to fight, there was no guarantee that such day would still not come. And what then?

If the sight of a fresh scar in Aramis' face was enough to set his soul bleeding in such manner, how then was he to cope with being forced to send his friends into battle, into the face of death? How was he supposed to bear his life knowing his hand could so easily rob his brothers of theirs? Had Thomas not been enough? Was he doomed to suffer the deaths of Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan as well?

The thoughts were too heavy and brutal for him to withstand any longer. Athos knew it was the cowardly way, but he needed to withdraw from Aramis' presence. He needed to escape such reminder of things to come.

Porthos called his name, but Athos dared not to look back. He escaped the tent like a thief in the night, telling himself that he was not abandoning Aramis.

~§~

Aramis woke to silence and darkness. The conjugation of the two struck him as odd even before he could remember where he was and what had come to pass.

He was injured and lying on a soldier's cot. That much he was familiar with, having suffered through both more times than he cared to admit. It was telling apart one battle from another that proved challenging.

His head and face ached fiercely and his whole body seemed eager to compete. Other than falling off a cliff, Aramis could think of nothing else to justify the miserable way he felt. And then he remembered.

The mission to find the scouting party's plans. Infiltrating the Spanish camp under the pretense of being a fellow Spanish soldier, held prisoner by the French until he had escaped. The arrival of the larger group just as he had managed to get his hands on the written orders. The murderous look on the Spanish officer's eyes as he recognized Aramis' face from a prior visit to Paris. And all the violence that followed.

Aramis had made his peace with God as he had left the monastery in Douai. He would abandon his promise to serve as a man of God until the end of his days, but as a soldier, he rode into a future that ensured his days would be short numbered. An exchange of the labors of his body for the early departure of his soul.

Still, it had come as an unpleasant surprise that his time would be arriving so soon. After falling prisoner to the Spanish, Aramis had never expected such a hastened rescue nor had he expected to survive.

But now that he found himself alive and that he knew where he was, the solitude in which he had been left, intrigued him. Young D'Artagnan was away, he remembered that, but Aramis had expected to find either Athos or Porthos, if not both, at his bedside. But he found neither.

It was not a matter of personal pride or expected duty. It was merely the way they each felt for one another. Aramis would never bear to be apart from his brothers when they were injured or taken ill, fearful that they might need him, terrified that they would decide to leave this world if not anchored by the comfort of a familiar presence. He knew Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan felt exactly the same.

Even though Athos was a man made busy with the many dealings of commanding his own troop of men, and that Porthos was in high demand due to his skills, it filled Aramis with dread that neither was there to greet his return to consciousness. No other explanations but the most dire of events came to his mind and Aramis could feel his heart, starting to race beneath his ribs.

Had they been injured trying to rescue him?

Had the troops been attacked by the Spanish army while he had slept comfortably in his bed?

Suddenly assaulted with a dreadful feeling, Aramis pushed himself to his feet. Horrifying images of the entire regiment struck down, of mangled bodies littering the ground and the camp left with nothing more than corpses and himself, forgotten inside that tent… the very idea blinded Aramis to all else.

Even though he kept telling himself that it was nothing but his mind playing tricks on him, Aramis could not rest until he saw for himself.

His legs felt weak and numb as he tried to use them, faltering steps making him look drunk and feeble. Propping himself wherever he could, Aramis dragged himself across the tent until he reached the opening. Like a drowning man breaching the surface of the water, Aramis pushed the fabric aside and looked beyond the canvas walls.

His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, a second filled with phantom images that insisted on assuring him that all were dead. When his mind finally started to process the campfires a distance away and the numerous groups of soldiers sitting around them, eating and quietly tending to their weapons, Aramis sagged in relief. Quite literally.

"What in hell's name are you doing out here?"

The vehement tone of voice could have easily belonged to Porthos, but it had been Athos who had uttered those words. Before Aramis could think of answering, Athos had seized him by the arm and was dragging him back into the tent.

Too stunned to speak, Aramis half expected his friend to toss him back into the cot, such was the violence and anger behind his actions. Athos led him to a chair instead, pushing Aramis to sit.

Only then did Aramis take notice of his surroundings. He was in Athos command tent, not his own. That would explain the peace and quiet he had woken up to.

Athos, pacing in front of him, looked furious. "Of all the stupid things you have done..."

Aramis cringed. He knew he had failed miserably in his task, allowing himself to be taken prisoner and forcing the troops into revealing themselves in order to rescue him. He knew Athos had every right to be cross with him.

He just wished that his friend could wait until he was feeling somewhat human again before addressing the matter. Knowing that such would not be the case, Aramis pulled himself straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. His ribs seemed to disagree with his stance and stabbed him in retaliation. Aramis ignore it, focusing instead on his fuming friend and commanding officer. "Athos..." he called out. It scared him that the other man would not even turn to face him then. "I'm truly sorry about what happened... It was never my intention to-"

The words finally seemed to register with Athos and he ceased his pacing, turning to face Aramis so swiftly that the marksman was sure he would strike him. The thought must have registered in his face because, before Aramis' eyes, Athos recoiled and crumbled at his feet. Athos looked up at him, dark smudges under his eyes making him appear older and worn. "What on earth are you on about?"

Aramis blinked. Surely Athos was not going to force him to spit out all of his faults and shortcomings. Athos had been there... he already knew that Aramis had completely floundered the task he had been appointed. "The mission... I," he started, searching his tired brain for the right words. "I failed you."

Kneeling in front of him, Athos looked too stunned to speak. When someone did, it was with Porthos' deep voice.

"Fer all of yer fancy words... you two are complete rubbish at talking feelings, aren't ya?"

Aramis turned his gaze away from Athos' dismayed expression to look at the tent's opening, where a scolding Porthos stood, holding bread and a bottle of wine in his hands. "W-what?"

The marksman's hand searched the bump he could feel on his forehead, throbbing. Maybe this was all a result of his head injury. Maybe his senses were playing tricks on him. Surely his friends hadn't both gone insane at the same time, had they?

"He's been feeling guilty fer days now," Porthos went on, setting his cargo on the table and pointing to Athos. "Thinkin' 'tis his fault that you were placed at risk and came out the other end with a new scar on yer face."

Aramis blinked again, resisting the urge to touch the itchy feeling on his left cheek. Days? New scar?

"And you," Porthos went on, turning his attention to Aramis. "I know tha' look too. Yer feeling guilty because the Spanish got their hands on ya and we had to rescue you, lest the bastards put ya to the sword or worse."

Porthos paused for a second, taking his time to look aggravated at the both them. Aramis was afraid that, were he to open his mouth to defend himself or disagree with any of what his friend had just said, Porthos would punch him senseless. He looked as if he still might.

"This ends here, now," Porthos announced, leaving no room for questions or doubts. "Aramis, tell Athos he's a bloody fool and 'tis not his fault tha' missions sometimes go wrong."

Aramis smiled, tearing his gaze away from Porthos to look at his still kneeling friend. "He's right you know," he agreed. "Nothing says ' _bloody fool_ ' better than standing around on your knees like that. I'm neither a saint nor a blushing damsel, so the position does you no good, my friend."

"Athos, tell this idiot that no matter wha' trouble he gets himself in, we'll always come to rescue him," Porthos went on, turning his attention to the older Musketeer. "And that 'tis _not his fault tha' missions sometimes go wrong,_ " he repeated with a growl, saying exactly the same words he had used for Aramis.

Athos, looking like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut, sagged against the floor, shifting his knees so that he was sitting down, resting his back against Aramis' legs. "He's right, you know," he said, contorting his face to look at the man he was currently using as a recliner. "There will never come a day or circumstance when we'll even consider leaving you behind," he said, a smile stretching across his lips. "Mostly because then I would be left alone with Porthos and, as you can see, he can be quite the tyrant," he added with a look of mock-terror at the larger man. "And D'Artagnan would never dare to defend me from his wrath. In fact, I think he would join Porthos in making me miserable."

Aramis couldn't help the giggle that escaped his lips. Later, he would blame exhaustion and injury for the unseemly sound, denying that it ever happened.

In that moment, though, all that he cared about was that he was alive, his friends were alive and everyone's blame had been gutted and quartered by Porthos' wise words.

He had just one question. "New scar?"


End file.
